--now he will not even take my hand. Is human nature itself at war with
me?"




CHAPTER III.

Nothing could be simpler than the apartment of the Vicomte de Mauleon, in
the second story of a quiet old-fashioned street. It had been furnished
at small cost out of his savings. Yet, on the whole, it evinced the good
taste of a man who had once been among the exquisites of the polite
world. You felt that you were in the apartment of a gentleman, and a
gentleman of somewhat severe tastes, and of sober matured years. He was
sitting the next morning in the room which he used as a private study.
Along the walls were arranged dwarf bookcases, as yet occupied by few
books, most of them books of reference, others cheap editions of the
French classics in prose--no poets, no romance-writers, with a few Latin
authors also in prose,--Cicero, Sallust, Tacitus. He was engaged at his
desk writing,--a book with its leaves open before him, "Paul Louis
Courier," that model of political irony and masculine style of
composition. There was a ring at his door-bell. The Vicomte kept no
servant. He rose and answered the summons. He recoiled a few paces on
recognizing his visitor in M. Hennequin.

The _Prefet_ this time did not withdraw his hand; he extended it, but it
was with a certain awkwardness and timidity. "I thought it my duty to
call on you, Vicomte, thus early, having already seen M. Enguerrand de
Vandemar. He has shown me the copies of the _pieces_ which were
inspected by your distinguished kinsmen, and which completely clear you